


Glad of Whatever Comes

by foolishgames



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Season 2 AU, Thomas in Nassau
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 17:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: "Oh, Captain?” Charles paused at the open door. “You mentioned a Captain Flint earlier. Would this be the Flint who sacked and burned the Maria Aleyne? About, oh, seven years back?”“Not a clue,” said Charles. “He’s the only Flint in these parts, though. Why?”“I’d just rather like to shake the fellow’s hand, is all,” said Hamilton quietly.





	1. Charles Vane has a Great Day

The tunnels beneath the fort were cool in the way only deep stone could be cool; dusty cold air and a feeling of peculiar solidity above and around. Charles Vane, accustomed to the endless blue skies and ever-shifting sea, refused to show discomfort in front of his companion. Eleanor seemed unconcerned, trailing after him in near silence, her soft-soled slippers making no noise on the uneven stones.

“This is the prize Ned Low was keeping,” he told her, and opened the door.

The prisoner was awake, which was a surprise; the laudanum ought to have kept him under until morning at least, but there he sat, turning his face away from the light but otherwise unmoving against the far wall of the cell.

“Meet Lord Thomas Hamilton,” said Charles. “He’s the brother of an Earl and friend to Ashe in Charlestown.”

“Hamilton,” said Eleanor, frowning, and stepped forward into the cell. “There was a rumour about a Hamilton - oh, years back, now - being appointed governor. Nothing ever came of it.”

The man sitting on the straw gave a creaking laugh. “Sailed half the world,” he said, “and that misstep’s still following me.” His eyes were watering even in the dim light of the single torch, but his back was straight against the wall, his soiled coat folded under him and his grubby sleeves pushed back.

“Is this really the time to be fucking about with hostages?” said Eleanor. “You know Flint’s coming for you. We need to get this situation resolved, and I don’t think adding an English lord into the mix is going to help settle things.”

Charles smirked at her, and brushed past her into the cell. “My lord,” he said, gently mocking. “You have the honour of being the guest of Captain Charles Vane of - of no particular ship at the moment, but a rather devoted crew and excellent fort.”

“Vane,” murmured Hamilton. “I’ve heard the name, I believe. A pleasure.” He slitted his eyes almost shut against the torchlight. “Do we shake hands? I’m rather encumbered.” A rattle of chain; the single cuff allowed him to move about the small space easily enough but get nowhere near the door.

“I’ll have someone bring paper, later, and a candle,” Charles told him. “You’ll write to your brother to arrange the ransom. A hundred thousand pounds should do. If he doesn’t pay, you die.”

Hamilton swallowed, his dry throat clicking audibly, and turned his face away. “Allow me to save you the time,” he said. “My brother will not pay any ransom. My absence from England is exceedingly convenient for him, and my death - by piracy, no less - would be more so.”

“You’re a fucking peer of the realm,” said Eleanor, when Charles found himself too stunned to respond. “They’d just let you rot here?”

“Certainly,” said Hamilton. “I will write the letter, if you like, but I’m very much afraid you have wasted your time.”

“Fucking Christ,” said Charles, and spun on his heel to leave, taking Eleanor by the arm. The prisoner made a slight, involuntary noise of protest as he took up the torch, and when he looked back, Hamilton’s chest was jumping with his rapid breaths, eyes shut against his apparent panic. When Charles shut the door, it would be utterly black again in the subterranean cell; a prospect that apparently inspired more fear in its occupant than Charles himself did.

He met Eleanor’s eyes. Her brow was wrinkled with something that looked very like sympathy. Charles shook his head minutely; he wasn’t going to feel fucking sorry for the pampered shit, scared of the dark.

“Perhaps,” said Hamilton, “I could be of use to you in some other way?”

“We’ve already got whores,” said Charles. “We need paying.”

“I meant rather more in the way of information,” said Hamilton, and that was such a fucking rich-boy thing, wasn’t it, twenty words where two would do.

“What kind of information?” said Eleanor, holding the door open when Charles would have slammed it. Her stock in trade, knowing shit. Charles had half a mind to leave her there in the dark.

“Information about -” Hamilton paused, considering his wording, voice still somewhat thready with fear. “Parties in London with interest in reclaiming Nassau,” he said eventually. “With the means to do so, perhaps.”

“Who?” said Eleanor, over top of Charles’ “How?”

“What’s it worth to you?” said Hamilton

“We don’t have time for this shit,” said Charles.

“If the British are coming to retake Nassau, we can’t very well let Flint destroy the fort,” said Eleanor. “Charles. _Charles_. We need to think bigger picture here. Swallow your fucking pride, would you?”

“Fuck _you,_ ” said Charles, but he went and got some of the boys to move his lordship to a room in the keep proper, with an arrow-slit for light and bars on the door and straw stuffed into a mattress instead of in a pile on the floor.

“Woodes Rogers,” Hamilton told them. “Former privateer, so he believes he has some insight into the piratical mind, you see.” He was eating non-maggoty bread with quick, neat bites, looking contented as could be. “He has allies in the admiralty and the Upper House, and some heavy backers among shipping companies.”

“How soon?” said Eleanor.

“Not immediately,” said Hamilton cagily.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Charles.

Hamilton sighed. “One does not gather a fleet and try to change the world in a matter of weeks, Captain Vane. Well, not in London, at any rate. But when I left London, a number of parties were already committed to the attempt, and it seemed truly inevitable. The only question now is when.”

“Specifics,” demanded Charles. “How many ships, how many men? What’s his strategy?”

“A half-dozen ships at least, fully armed and crewed. As to strategy -” Hamilton hesitated again. “I believe he means to offer a universal pardon, and to set the former pirates to work farming and building.”

“That’ll never work,” said Eleanor immediately, and a look passed between them.

“It might work,” Charles admitted. “Shit.”

“And if the fort’s defenceless, we’ve no means to repel them,” said Eleanor.

“Shut up about the fucking fort,” said Charles. “If Flint wasn’t such a fucking prig -”

“If the two of you would just sit down and talk like men -”

“If you hadn’t thrown your little temper tantrum and lost me my ship -”

What was shaping up to be an excellent argument was interrupted by a bang on the door; a crewman letting them know it was an hour until dawn, when Flint would begin his barrage. Charles and Eleanor stared at one another, and on his straw-filled mattress, Thomas Hamilton folded his hands and looked quizzically between them.

“Fuck, fine,” said Charles. “Set up a fucking meeting.”

Eleanor was out the door before he’d finished speaking.

“If this is a trick,” said Charles conversationally, “I will gut you and hang you by your own intestines.”

Hamilton blinked at him. “In that case, I sincerely hope that Woodes Rogers is as convincing as I’ve always found him. Oh, Captain?” Charles paused at the open door. “You mentioned a Captain Flint earlier. Would this be the Flint who sacked and burned the _Maria Aleyne_? About, oh, seven years back?”

“Not a clue,” said Charles. “He’s the only Flint in these parts, though. Why?”

“I’d just rather like to shake the fellow’s hand, is all,” said Hamilton quietly. Behind him through the narrow slit in the wall, the sky was lightening as the dawn approached.

 

“This isn’t a surrender,” was the first thing Charles said when Flint strutted in Eleanor’s office above the tavern, mid-morning.

Flint only grunted at him. He was flanked by that thieving shithead with the page, and the man Charles still privately thought of as Wee Billy, head-and-shoulders above anyone else in the room. Hornigold came after, hair combed and coat fussily straightened, with a couple of his own crew.

“So you called this meeting to gloat?” sneered Hornigold. “The walls won’t hold against our cannons, Vane.”

“That’s rather the point,” Eleanor interrupted. “We’ve discovered that British will be sending a force to retake Nassau for the Lords Proprieter in the near future. If we’re to have any hope of staving off the empire, we need a united front.”

“Not to mention a fort that isn’t full of holes,” said Charles. He kicked his feet up on Eleanor’s desk, and grinned to himself at her stifled noise of frustration.

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” said Flint. “What’s your angle here?”

Charles watched the men in the room as Eleanor talked, delicately stepping around the topic of Charles’ prisoner to lay out the plan he had presented to them: the steel fist of the warships, the velvet glove of the pardons, the free men and women of the ocean turned to labouring drones under the new governor. Hornigold scoffed and looked unconvinced, but Flint’s face grew darker the longer Eleanor talked, and at last he cut her off with a sharp, impatient gesture.

“I don’t know who you claim to have penned up in that fort, Vane, but you’ve been lied to.”

“What would you know about it?”

“The English aren’t sending a governor with pardons and an economic plan. This proposal - this exact proposal - was made more than ten years ago and was absolutely rejected in the highest halls of power.”

“Things change,” protested Eleanor. “Ten years ago England was at war. Ten years ago trade through the region was a third what it is now. Perhaps they’ve decided we’re worth quashing.”

Charles shot Flint a narrow look. “What the fuck would you know about the highest halls of power, Flint?

“Enough to know a fucking stalling tactic when I see one,” Flint returned. “You want time to bolster your defences, you want me to waste time in returning for the _Urca_ gold - you’re scrambling for time because it’s the only thing on your side. I’m going to get you out of that fort if it’s in pieces, and I’ll deal with England when it comes.”

Charles shrugged at Eleanor. “I tried.”

“You didn’t try at all,” she snapped. “Flint, everything we’ve talked of. Securing Nassau’s future, building something permanent here - what Hamilton knows could ruin all of that.”

It was a transparent attempt to manipulate a man who’d shown himself resistant to such manipulation, which is why it was such a surprise when Flint stopped still in the act of rising from his chair, and fairly gaped at Eleanor.

“Hamilton,” he choked out.

Eleanor cocked her head quizzically. “Lord Thomas Hamilton. His brother’s the Earl of Ashbourne. That’s how he knows -”

Vane groped for his pistol as Flint lunged at Eleanor, seizing her by the shoulders. To her credit, Eleanor hardly flinched, just tilted her chin at him and glared.

“You’re lying,” Flint breathed. “Thomas Hamilton is dead.”

“Not according to the passenger manifest of the _Good Fortune_ ,” said Charles. “Nor the man himself. He claims he’s not worth much for ransom, despite it.”

Flint swallowed. “He wouldn’t be,” he said. “His father had him -” He broke off mid-sentence and released Eleanor.

Silver cleared his throat. “Perhaps if we could speak with this Hamilton?” he ventured. He was trying very hard, very obviously, not to look askance at his Captain, who had gone white and was staring at his hands.

“Mmm,” said Charles. “I don’t think so. Unless you feel like ransoming him?”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” said Flint in a very calm voice, and went for his sword.

Disappointingly, Wee Billy restrained his captain in muscled embrace before anything could come of it. Charles got to his feet to look curiously at Flint’s reddened face, the cords of his neck standing out, the way his eyes were darting around wildly.

“He asked after you, you know,” said Charles, prodding. “Captain Flint who took the _Maria Aleyne_.”

Flint went limp, and Billy set him gingerly back on his feet.

“I think we need to return to the point here,” said Eleanor.

“What’s the ransom,” croaked Flint.

“That is definitely not the point,” said Silver. “Captain. Captain, a word, please? Outside?”

“I was gonna ask a hundred thousand from his brother,” said Charles, “But from you, hah.”

Flint ignored Silver pulling on his arm, and met Charles’ eye level and calm, and Charles knew he’d won.

“The _Urca_ gold,” said Flint.

Charles kicked his feet back onto the desk. “The _Urca_ gold. Oh, and I’m keeping the fort.”

 

The morning passed with a lot of shouting. Eleanor shouted, Silver and Billy shouted, Flint threw a bottle across the room and went to stand outside on the balcony and glare at the bay. Hornigold ranted for a solid twenty minutes about betrayal and brotherhood and loyalty and left in a rage when Flint wouldn’t so much as look at him. Charles spotted Jack Rackham downstairs, staring at a mug of beer and looking like he’d been brained with a plank, and Max, looking pointedly like she was taking no interest at all in the meeting happening upstairs.

Eventually Eleanor stormed off, muttering dire threats about what would happen if either of them started a war while she was gone, and Silver and Billy huddled in a corner, speaking quietly to each other and trading nervous looks. Charles finished the bottle of rum and went out to join Flint on the balcony.

“Thomas Hamilton died of a laudanum overdose in Bethlem Hospital,” said Flint, after they’d been baking in the noon sun for a while. “Eight years ago.”

“Maybe,” said Charles.

“I’ll need to see him,” said Flint. “I’ll need time to convince my crew, work things out with Hornigold.”

“I’m not letting you in my fort, you’ll blow it up,” said Charles. “And fuck Hornigold, frankly. He’s been sitting on his fat arse up in that place too long. Half the walls are coming down out of neglect, never mind cannons.”

“I need to see him,” said Flint. “I’m not giving you a share of the greatest treasure on the continent on, on a name, you could have heard that name anywhere.” He was starting to sound a little wild again.

“Shall I have him write you a letter?” Charles smirked.

“Oh, fuck you,” said Flint. “Oh.” Coming down the street was Eleanor, in her linen shirt and vest - she was half-running to keep up with an unfamiliar woman, tall and dark-haired, wearing a pristine gown and a lace cap like one of the puritans of the interior. “Shit,” said Flint, and went inside.

He met the woman on the stairs in tumble of half-finished questions and half-hysterical tears, to the enormous curiosity of the crowd in the room below, but by the time he’d ushered her up into Eleanor’s office she was calm again, a stern set to her mouth, and she met Charles’ eyes unflinchingly.

“Captain Vane,” she said. “I understand you have my husband.”

Charles blinked at her, then raised a lazy eyebrow at Eleanor, who shrugged, looking just as mystified.

“Captain Vane, Miss Guthrie, may I present Mrs Miranda Hamilton,” said Flint, the syllables popping from his mouth like a London drawing room. “Miranda, Captain Charles Vane and of course you know Eleanor Guthrie.” A hand on the woman’s arm, a slight gesture, and she sank into a chair. Flint folded his hands behind his back in some sort parade rest.

“What the fuck,” said Eleanor.

From the corner, Silver muttered something rude, and subsided into silence at Flint’s glare.

“We had word my husband had died,” said Mrs Hamilton briskly. “And now you claim he has fallen into your lap, Captain Vane, at a rather convenient time. You’ll forgive me -”

“You’re fucking an Earl’s wife?” said Charles to Flint, aghast. Flint’s sword hand twitched, but it was Mrs Hamilton who restrained his this time, one slim hand on his wrist as she stood and advanced on Charles.

“Captain Vane, I would like to see my husband. I insist on it.”

“And if I refuse?” said Charles, grinning down at her. A fine lady, this one, and he’d always loved that fancy accent.

“Then you’re lying,” said Flint, “and I will raze the fort to the ground, kill your crew, and stake you out on the beach to die as slowly as I can manage for putting his name in your filthy mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Billy.

“Then we have an agreement,” said Charles. “Thomas Hamilton for my crew getting a share in the _Urca_ haul and keeping the fort.”

“Fine,” said Flint. “I’ll square it with Hornigold somehow.”

“Captain,” said Silver desperately. “Captain, let’s talk about this.”

“Mrs Hamilton,” said Charles, “If you would?”

She would, as it turned out, and Flint sent Billy with them, presumably to avoid having to pacify both crewmen at once. She took Billy’s arm when they reached the street, and Charles got to watch the enormous man’s ears turn pinker and pinker at the touch of a gently-bred lady’s bare hand on his wrist.

Fuck, _everything_ was funny today. Everything had been hilarious since the Flint had heard the name “Hamilton” and lost his fucking mind, this was a _great_ day.

Mrs - Lady? - Hamilton kept it together through the streets, barely lost her breath climbing up towards the fort, and went only a little pale at the sight of Charles’ massed crew in the fort’s courtyard, flinched only a little closer to Billy, who puffed up like a startled cat. The only sign of her nerves as Charles made a production of selecting the right key to the cell was the wringing of her hands, but when the door swung open and Hamilton looked up, his wife crumpled like a fist to the belly, doubled over as if she was in agony.

“My god,” said Hamilton. “Miranda. Miranda, my -” Charles’ pistol prevented him from getting any further, from going to her, but the lady staggered forward, with shaking hands and hungry, brimming eyes, and they fell onto each other in a confusion of kisses and tears.

Charles kicked the door shut on the touching scene and leaned against it. “That seems conclusive,” he said to Billy. “Run and tell your ginger overlord, will you?”

“Captain said to stay with Mrs Barlow. Mrs Hamilton. Stay with the lady,” said Billy.

Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’re not as stupid as you look, are you, Wee Billy?”

Billy stood up straight, just so he could look down at Charles. His nearest bicep flexed. Charles was having such a good day. “Might be,” said Billy. “How stupid do I look?”

Charles slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the way. Oy, you in there!” He rapped the butt of his pistol on the door. “That’s enough time, your ladyship. Button up.”

Charles was spared the spectacle of dragging Mrs Hamilton from her husband; she left him with a last desperate kiss or two and a murmured promise to _tell James_. She leaned against Billy’s proffered arm again while she wiped her eyes and collected her thoughts, and then walked with them, quite composed, to the gate of the keep, where they met Flint arguing with the gate guards.

“It’s him,” said Mrs Hamilton, and Flint’s face did half a dozen complicated things.

“Right,” he said then. “Right.”

“Time to go get my gold,” said Charles.

“Silver’s gone to prepare the crew,” said Flint, one thumb rubbing absently back and forth on Mrs Barlow’s arm. “And to deal with Hornigold’s men.”

“Not my problem,” said Charles.

“It is your problem, though,” said Billy. “Hornigold’s well-liked, and he’ll try for the fort again. It’ll make problems for you in future.”

“No fort, no ship, no income? Crew’ll leave him soon enough,” said Charles. “We leave at dawn.”

As the gate of the fort shut behind him, he heard Mrs Hamilton’s “Is this going to be a problem? Is Thomas going to be alright?” and the indistinct rumble of Flint’s reply.

What a fucking great day.

 

He left a couple of men behind to keep the fort - those injured in the original taking of it, and a couple of others who showed little aptitude for sea life, despite everything. He looked in on Hamilton before he left, the middle of the night before he went down to the beach.

“You still gonna shake Flint’s hand when you see him?” he asked, as Hamilton rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted warily at him. “He’s fucking your wife, you know.”

“Obviously,” said Hamilton. He sat up straight, and his spine and shoulders went pop-pop-pop.  “I must say, I’m grateful to you, Captain Vane.”

Charles snorted. “Do you know what he’s paying me for you, your highness?”

“I’d pay it twice over to be with them again,” said Hamilton, with disarming earnestness.

“That’s a stupid thing to say to a pirate,” Charles reminded him. “I might try to collect.”

“Oh, I haven’t a penny to my name,” said Hamilton, sounding cheered by the prospect. “Everything I owned was on the _Good Fortune_ and is, I suspect, in your possession now. All I can offer is my gratitude.”

“For the bedbugs? The cell? The dry bread once a day and bucket in the corner?”

Hamilton sighed, and rolled to his feet with the kind of groan that meant he felt it in his joints. “The straw is clean, the water’s fresh. I have a window, and a bucket, and a visit from my wife. Nobody’s dunked me in freezing water, nor drugged me since that first night, nor forced me to spin around until I’m ill or recite my myriad sins or be bled and blistered or pretend any of it’s for my own fucking benefit.” He swears like Eleanor, Charles thought, precise and calculated in those polished tones. “For all their dreadful reputation, it seems pirates have nothing on a well-intentioned English doctor.”

“I could try harder.” Charles was unnerved by the steadiness of Hamilton’s voice.

Hamilton smiled gently. “I understand you have a ship to catch.”


	2. Billy Bones has a Difficult Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy Bones would like a bath, a nap, and to be left alone. Instead he has love-distracted Captain on the brink of homicide, a logistical nightmare to manage, and people won't stop flirting with him. It's hard being Billy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a lot of comments! I was going to answer them but instead I put my head under a blanket and made high-pitched noises. I love you guys.  
> This chapter is from Billy's point of view, and future chapters will alternate between a few characters. Don't worry, we will get more Charles - he has a lot of great days coming up!

Billy Bones was having an unbelievably difficult week, which started with torture, peaked with discovering that his half-mad captain had murdered his dearest friend, and improved only slightly upon the attainment of a reasonable share of five million dollars.

“All we have to do,” he said to Silver, “is keep Flint and Vane from killing each other long enough to get this prize secure in Nassau, right?”

Silver pulled a dubious face. “That’s one thing,” he said. “But we have to keep the crews from killing each other too. And Dufresne is plotting something against Flint, obviously, and Vane’s got an understandable problem with the former _Ranger_ crew.” He gazed out at the horizon, brow wrinkled. “Am I forgetting something? Oh. Hornigold. Though that’s a problem for when we get back.”

It was easier with two ships, at least, and worth the time it took to get the _Walrus_ patched up and back afloat. Separating the crews simmered the tensions down to manageable levels, as did the sizable handful of doubloons doled out to each man for walking-around money until they could get the haul properly accounted.

Even then the holds of both ships groaned under the weight, stuffed awkwardly full, riding low in the water. Two days before they made landfall in Nassau, the hasty job they did on the _Walrus_ sprang a sizable leak, and the warship pulled up alongside to assist with repairs while they were vulnerable.

Billy was hanging over the side with a bucket of tar and hammer when the commotion occurred on deck: a sudden, alarmed shout, something falling with a crash - and then, as Billy was hauling himself up to see, a single gunshot, and silence. The tableau he was presented with might almost have been comical: the astonished crews, Captain Vane with his cheek bleeding and his hands empty, the dead man on the deck. And Captain Flint, pistol in hand, face stony with rage.

“Does anybody else have a problem with Captain Vane?” he snarled.

“What happened?” Billy asked in undertone to Silver.

“One of the old Ranger crew went for Vane,” Silver murmured. “Trying to increase his share, maybe?”

“Or not waiting for Vane to take his own revenge for their desertion,” said Billy. “Flint settled it?”

Silver shook his head, eyes still fixed on Flint, who was talking in a low, furious voice about what he would do to the next man who endangered any member of their combined crew. Vane’s eyebrows were climbing towards his hairline, and he looked wildly entertained despite the blood dripping off his chin. “Vane had him down easy, he only got a swing in for the surprise. Flint just -” He made the shape of a pistol with his fingers, and fired it right by Billy’s temple. “Went all dead-eyed like he gets sometimes.”

“No surprise there,” said Billy. “We get back to Nassau without Captain Vane and that hostage is dead for sure.”

“Who do you reckon it is?” By now, Flint had finished his threats and stormed off into the salon, leaving Vane to attend his own wounds, and the crews had begun to return to their work, leaving the corpse to cool. “Brother? Friend? Took on his wife afterwards, at any rate.”

Billy blinked at Silver, unsure if he was joking. “Lover, I’d say.”

Silver scoffed. “No, but really.”

“Yeah, though. Captain’s a Navy man, you’ve noticed?” Maybe Silver hadn’t: it was the posture on deck, the tone of crisp command, the occasional moment of tactical insight. Or maybe he had, and it was the other thing the he wasn’t seeing, a thing more difficult to spot in a man, that Billy was still learning to see in careful ways they looked at other men and the way they looked away. “Officer, not enlisted, and that means career. Bloody brilliant sailor. You reckon the Navy’s going to let go of a commander like that in the middle of a war, for no reason?”

“I don’t follow,” said Silver.

“Not many reasons to discharge an officer that’ll leave ‘em hating England like that, drive ‘em to the other side of the world to turn pirate. Mutiny, maybe, treason, though I don’t think either of those would make a man so enraged as him. Or?” He turned an expectant eye on Silver.

“Sodomy,” Silver realised. “But the other fellow’s a Lord, didn’t he say?”

“Probably why it was such a problem,” said Billy. “And probably the only reason Flint didn’t hang.”

Silver watched the men on deck stepping carefully around the body, eyes narrowed, and made a soft humming noise to himself. “The wife?”

“Seems legitimately fond of them both,” said Billy. “There are odder arrangements, I imagine.”

“I bet you do imagine,” said Silver with a leer, and Billy shoved him and went back to work.

 

“There’s not a man on this island that wouldn’t kill every one of us for this prize,” said Silver softly, to nods from the assembled crew. “Until the gold is safe in that fort, we cannot trust any one of them. We have no friends here. Stay on your guard and stick with your crew.”

Moving this much coin was a logistical nightmare, even so short a distance as a couple of miles from the dock to the fort. It was going to take days - they couldn’t do it all at once, and had to have enough men to guard both ships in the bay, the fort itself, and the moving money. Not to mention that each crew had to be supervised by the other, so as to ensure that no funny business occurred. Also, a significant amount of the coin was loose and uncounted, dug up from the sand after the storm. They’d combed the beach for days, but Billy suspected intrepid treasure-hunters would be fishing up coin there for years to come.

“We can’t move the coin at night,” said Vane stubbornly. “Too vulnerable to an ambush, too easy for one man to slip away with some extra. Small amounts at a time - one cartload, maybe two, no more.”

Flint ran a hand over the top of his head. “You’re,” he visibly swallowed, “probably right. We’ll need to switch off which ship is being unloaded, as well, so as not to leave one or the other vulnerable.” He levelled a moderately murderous look at Vane. “And we’ll need to discuss access to the fort for myself and my crew,” he said.

Vane smirked. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” he agreed generously. Billy wanted to kick him, but settled for folding his arms and glaring until he left.

“What’s the estimate on how long this will take?” Flint asked, after Vane was gone.

“Five days, give or take,” said Billy. “That’s just moving it, mind, not the accounting and shares. I don’t know that Vane’s quartermaster is, uh, lettered.”

“And I trust Dufresne with this about as far as I could throw him,” muttered Flint. “Wonderful.”

“I can oversee things here, Captain, if you have other business,” said Billy, knowing full well that Flint did have other business, and would stay anyway.

“No, let’s get it done,” said Flint grimly. “Vane won’t budge until the gold’s secure.”

“You know he’s only dragging things out to infuriate you, right?” said Billy, which garnered him a poisonous look.

“Obviously,” said Flint.

BIlly stayed on the Walrus the first day, overseeing the packing of the gold and loading onto the longboats, the cooperation of the crews, and fishing Silver out of delicate situations. The cook seemed to have a knack for being where the tensions were highest and the work was easiest.

By sundown, they’d moved less than a third of the gold from the Walrus and much less from the warship, and the crews were getting rowdy and restless, wanting to take their advances and go celebrate. It took all of Silver’s soothing to keep them on ship, with the promise of revels beyond imagining when they were secure.

“Captain’s not back yet,” Billy mentioned as Randall doled out the rum.

“He said he was going to see his woman,” said Silver. “I hear she’s been staying in town, waiting for him. I heard that Vane’s men haven’t let her in to see him again.”

“You gossip worse than the whores,” Billy told him, and Silver flashed him that charming grin.

“I gossip much better than the whores, come on.”

Nassau by dusk was a pretty sight: the campfires on the beach giving a otherworldly glow, the town beyond looking somehow softer and less dirty, the ships bobbing peacefully in the bay. Billy knocked back his rum and leaned against the railing. “I cannot fucking believe we pulled this off.”

Silver tapped his drink against Billy’s empty mug. “We’re all gonna be so fucking rich.”

“This place,” said Billy, waving at Nassau. “This is going to change now. Flint’s got plans, you know? And even if he didn’t, this much gold, it changes things. It has weight.”

“Mm,” said Silver. “S’ why we needed two ships.”

Billy snorted and poked him. “No, I mean, the money. Not the coins, but the money. Right? The power it has to change the world around it, even if it doesn’t get spent. Just sitting on a beach and it’s already changed the island, made Flint and Vane work together, got Gates killed, all this shit.”

“The gold did?”

“Nothing was this crazy before Flint found out about that gold. Seems like it’s touched everything on the island.”

“You talk about it like it’s alive,” said Silver. His eyes looked black in the darkness, shining in the reflected campfires. “Like it’s acting in its own interests.”

Billy squinted into his empty mug. One measure of rum shouldn’t have him putting out fuzzy thoughts like this. “What the fuck am I talking about,” he sighed. “It’s this fucking gold, mate, it’s messing with everyone’s heads. Ignore me.”

Silver patted him on the arm. “You’re a rich man now,” he said. “You can afford some eccentricity.”

 

The next day, Billy was guarding one of the caravans up to the fort when they were attacked.

It was a quick scuffle - some wet-behind-the-ears crew who thought to get a share in easy money - but brutal, and one of Vane’s crew was killed, blood splattering dramatically across the chest he was protecting.

The good humour Vane had been displaying up until this point vanished as soon as the beleaguered party arrived at the fort. The corpses, except for Vane’s man, were strung in a macabre display across the front gate.

“Send word to the ships,” Vane ground out. “No more movement until we secure the road better.”

“We can’t leave the gold sitting out on the harbour,” said Billy, and took a step back as Vane wheeled on him.

“Then you had better get moving to make sure the route is safe, hadn’t you?” he snapped.

“Captain Flint won’t like this,” said Billy.

Vane tilted his head, snake-like. “Wee Billy, you and I both know that your Captain would rather cut off his own cock than cross me right now. We aren’t moving the gold until the road is secure.”

Billy scowled. “Fine. How secure would you like it? You want me to burn all the bushes around the road? Lock up every disreputable fucker on the island in Miss Guthrie’s basement? Create a fucking diversion? And in the meantime, the gold’s is just sitting out there on the water, hardly any safer than it would be on the road.”

“And what would you suggest?”

“I suggest,” said Billy, “that our best option is speed. There are a thousand pirates on this island, and by nightfall they’ll have drunk themselves properly brave. I’d like to have the majority of the gold in this fort before then, because soon they’re going to realise that sixty men against a thousand only works if the sixty have thick fucking walls to hide behind.”

Billy had a good eight inches on Vane, like he did on most men, and he wasn't used to feeling so skewered by someone’s gaze.

“Are you sure,” Vane said, “I can’t offer you a spot on my crew, Wee Billy? The position has its benefits.” Like most things, this sounded like a cross between a threat and a proposition in Vane’s lazy island drawl.

“If you keep calling me that I’m going to fire you out of one of your own cannons,” said Billy tiredly. For some reason, this seemed to cheer Vane up a lot.

 

Captain Flint returned from town as the sun was setting to a fort that resemble an overturned anthill. The _Walrus_ had been cleaned out completely, and the warship, much better able to repel boarders, was under heavy guard by paranoid angry men. The storerooms beneath the fort were heaped full of gold: chests and chests of the stuff, some stuffed in bags or scattered loose on the floor, mostly doubloons and escudos and a few chests of unminted ingots. Billy couldn’t stay in the room with that much gold without feeling it pressing on him, almost cracking the floor beneath his feet with the weight of it, so he was on the wall when Flint came up the road, Silver at his back.

“I heard there was an attack,” said Flint without preamble.

“And like a true brother, you rushed to our aid,” said Vane, slouching against a handy wall.

“Jesus Christ, they’re going to kill each other,” said Silver, not bothering to lower his voice. “Do we get a bigger share if our Captains commit to mutual destruction?”

“Shut up, Silver,” said Billy. “Captain, we’ve moved up the timetable. I estimate two-thirds of the total is in the fort, including all that was on the Walrus. Captain Vane has agreed to give you, me and one other member of our crew unlimited access to the fort in order to have the prize counted and shares apportioned.”

“Right,” said Flint, looking around the courtyard. “What’s the plan for moving the rest?”

“Tomorrow,” said Vane. “I’ve got men on it, and Wee Billy’s helping.”

“ _Cannon_ ,” said Billy warningly, ignoring the strange looks from his crewmates. “We’ll have it secure by noon, if all goes well.”

“Then you’ll release the hostage,” said Flint. “Once the gold is secure?”

“Hell, take him now,” said Vane carelessly. “Your ship’s been stripped, you’ve got nothing for leverage, no need for me to waste manpower on guarding him. Wait here, I’ll fetch him.”

Flint had gone rather pale.

“Billy, come help me hitch up the buggy,” said Silver brightly, and tugged him around the corner to where they could watch without intruding while Captain Flint having a quiet little breakdown, leaning against the gate of the fort and sucking in alarmed breaths.

“He doesn’t look happy,” said Silver in an undertone. “Maybe he’s been looking to kill this Hamilton in a fit of jealous rage.”

“Ten years and two million dollars’d be quite a rage,” said Billy.

“Is that him?” said Silver. Across the courtyard, Vane was holding the door open for the man Billy had only caught a glimpse of before: tall and fair-haired, plainly dressed and delicately handsome. Even if Billy hadn’t seen him before, Flint went stock-still at the sight, and more than one of Vane’s crew stopped work to watch the proceedings.

“Ah, shit,” said Silver, eyes on the captain. “You were right. Get the Captain outside the gate, give ‘em a bit of privacy.”

Between the two of them, they managed to shut the gate on grinning Vane and his curious crew just as Thomas Hamilton and Captain Flint stumbled into each other’s arms like drowning men.

“I didn’t believe  -” gasped Flint, “even when Miranda told me -”

“Shhh,” said Hamilton, his mouth a breath from Flint’s. His long fingers were tracing the shape of Flint’s hair, his cheek, and Billy grabbed Silver by the sleeve and hauled him a few scant, token steps away. In Nassau, where whores performed naked on the beach in the broad unforgiving light of day, somehow watching Captain Flint sink into his lover’s embrace by twilight was too intimate for Billy to consider watching.

“I’ll bring the buggy around,” said Silver, after a number of quiet moments had passed, and slipped away.

“Er,” said Billy, at what seemed to be an opportune moment. “I’ll see to matters here, Captain, as I see you have. Uh. Business in town.”

Captain Flint made a strange sound, rather muffled by the soft cotton of Hamilton’s shirt. Laughter, Billy realised, slightly hysterical laughter. “Thank you, Bones,” he said. “Mrs Hamilton has taken a room at the tavern, you’ll find me there if I’m needed tomorrow.” He looked up at Billy, and past him to Silver, leading the horse. “Do see that I’m not needed tomorrow, won’t you?” Between them, his hands were holding fast to Thomas Hamilton’s, and Lord Hamilton had not yet looked away from Flint’s face, not even for a moment.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Billy.

“I bet you’ll dream of - ow, ow, Billy, ow, no -” said Silver, as Billy dragged him by the ear into the fort, away from the sunset spilling over the ocean and the lovers by the gate and the town like spilt golden light cupped in the bay.


	3. James McGraw is Happy For Like a Solid Twenty Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James remembers how to be happy. Thomas gets kissed a bunch. Miranda makes friends.  
> Also there's plot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mashes their faces together while yelling "kiss! kiss!"*

In the middle of the night, James woke to feel Thomas getting out of the bed.

For a man pinned between two zealous lovers, he moved quite stealthily: had James not been so desperately attuned to his every breath and movement he might never have woken. He lay still as Thomas inched to the end of the bed and sat there for a moment, then fumbled around in the dark, hunting for the chamberpot. Once he was done with that, he hesitated, and James dared to open his eyes a little and peer through the gloom.

Thomas sat quietly for a while, looking around the room, and then stood and moved to the door. James had locked it before sleeping, and Thomas fidgeted with it until the handle turned and he could open the door a crack. Then, apparently satisfied, he closed and locked it again, before prowling over to the outer door onto the small balcony and repeating his check. This door commanded a view over the town and harbour, and Thomas flung it wide and stood with the breeze slipping in over him, silhouetted by by the stars.

He was too thin, by moonlight, the pared-down edges and hollowed-out softness too stark, too pale. They had not spoken of the past before they slept: Thomas had said little beyond “I was there, and then I wasn’t -” but the past decade had been unkind to him if the tremble in his once-steady shoulders could be believed.

It took a moment for James to realise that Thomas’ deep breaths of the sea air had turned to gasps, that the trembling had turned to heaving. He slipped from the bed and came up behind Thomas, making no effort towards silence, and embraced him.

For all that he had seemed ethereal and half-real in the moonlight, Thomas was reassuringly solid in his arms. James leaned his forehead against the back of Thomas’ neck and held him until his tears had subsided.

“I’ve had this dream,” said Thomas at last, and turned in his arms. His face was wet and his skin was hot and clammy, but he pressed his nose to James’ cheek fondly.

“So have I,” said James. “It’s a good dream.”

“Mm,” said Thomas. He touched the edge of James’ beard, the curve of his mouth, the shell of his ear. “Will I wake up from it?”

“Come back to bed and find out,” said James, and the moonlight caught the edge of Thomas’ smile.

“Why, Lieutenant,” he said coyly, and let James tow him back to where Miranda still slept, leaving the window open to let in the stars.

 

Morning came gently, for once, and James stirred to wakefulness and found himself unwilling to move beyond blinking, for Thomas’ face was only a breath from his own, upturned and slack with sleep. James could see his pale eyelashes against his cheeks, his dry cracked lips, the fine crows feet around his eyes. There were new creases in his forehead, new hollows to his cheeks, but the marks of a lifetime of sweet smiles couldn’t be undone by even a decade of hardship, it seemed, and the lines of his face still spoke more of happiness than grief.

Happiness.

For ten years James had known happiness only as a memory: quiet mornings in Thomas’ bed like this, learning not to be ashamed with every touch, coming to take pleasure and pride in Thomas’ smiles and sweetness. Miranda would come home, sometimes to find them still abed at noon, and her delighted indulgence and teasing had eroded away any hesitation he might have felt, to belong here, with them, and the _rightness_ and _goodness_ of their union. It had been taken from them in such an ugly way, so calculated to shame and blacken the whole of it, and for ten years James had only the memory of how it felt: to be a good man who was loved. And now Thomas was alive, and sleeping next to him, as if no time had passed at all.

On the other side of the bed, Miranda stirred, coming up onto her elbows to look across Thomas and meet James’ eyes. They shared a small, secret smile, fond and helplessly delighted, and Miranda broke first, putting her face back down into the the pillow to muffle her laughter while James grinned stupidly at the side of Thomas’ face.

“Wha’s funny,” muttered Thomas sleepily.

“Nothing, love,” said Miranda, and curled closer to him, lying half on his chest. “We’re just happy.”

“Mm,” said Thomas. “Happy.” His arm curled up around Miranda’s shoulders, fingers combing through her loose hair, and he turned his face towards James as his eyes slowly opened. “That’s the word.”

James kissed him. He heard another giggle bubble up out of Miranda. Thomas had a beard now, which caught and rubbed against James’ own beard, but his mouth was as welcoming as it had ever been. James might float away out of sheer bliss.

Thomas turned to kiss Miranda afterwards, who had not yet managed to still her delighted laughter, and the arch of his neck was so lovely, the way his borrowed shirt slipped too-large down his shoulders, that James wanted to put his teeth there. So he did, quite gently, and Thomas gasped aloud and shivered all down his spine in a very interesting way, and matters seemed so be progressing quite pleasantly in a way they none of them had had the spirit for the previous night.

Then there was a knock on the door. James dropped his face into the pillow and swore inventively under his breath.

“Fuck off,” he called, loud enough the be heard, and then amended, “unless you’ve brought food?” Eleanor’s workers didn’t typically serve breakfast, as far as he knew, but Miranda had spent the full week here - perhaps she’d made arrangements.

“Captain,” said the interloper. Silver. Miranda and Thomas had ceased their own activities, and Thomas looked about ready to join his wife in laughing at his frustration.

Muttering direly to himself, James rolled off the bed and padded to the door. “Mr Silver, I thought I’d made myself clear that I wasn’t to be interrupted today?”

Silver did look apologetic, to his credit, though that didn’t stop his gaze from wandering curiously past James to the bed and its occupants. “Sorry, Captain, Hamiltons. There’s a bit of a situation downstairs.”

“The gold?” James resisted the urge to turn and see what Silver was seeing behind him: Thomas sprawled on the bed in James’ borrowed clothes, with Miranda in her shift half-atop him and the empty, rumpled space James had just vacated. Silver knew enough to guess, anyway, after what he’d seen the previous evening.

“Some of it’s missing,” said Silver. “Not much, a couple of chests. And nobody has seen Eleanor Guthrie since yesterday morning.”

James blinked. “You’re not implying that she -”

“No, I don’t think so. I think she’s been taken.”

Now James looked back: Miranda had gone wide-eyed and was reaching for her housecoat, and Thomas’ face was creased in concern. “I’ll be there in a minute. Vane’s here?”

“And Billy.”

“See if Rackham’s hanging about, and find Max. If that woman isn’t involved already, I’d rather have her on our side.”

“Right. Sorry again, ma’am.”

“I’ll see about a meal,” said Miranda as he closed the door. In the clear morning light, her housecoat was a battered, sorry garment; the print on the cotton was worn and faded, the seams threadbare. James had the momentary, distracting thought that with his share of the treasure he would buy her silk again and see her dressed in brilliant reds and greens.

When he sat on the bed to pull on his boots, Thomas leaned up against his back and pressed his mouth to the knob of James’ spine. “I like your earring,” said Thomas, touching it with his thumb. “You look like a proper pirate.”

James turned for a kiss, firm and promising. “I will try not to be long,” he said. “You should rest.”

“I don’t need to rest,” said Thomas. “I need food and sunshine.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t go far,” Miranda assured him, holding James’ coat for him to slip into. He kissed her hand in thanks, and then Thomas’ lips in the interest of drawing the moment out a little longer, and then he had to go.

 

Eleanor Guthrie had left the tavern at noon the previous day, according to Eme, to go up to the fort after hearing of the attack on the caravan. According to Vane, she had never arrived, and since he hadn’t been expecting her, the alarm was not raised. According to Billy, one of the wagons of gold had gone missing on the road, and Dufresne and a couple of the other Walrus men had been with it.

“Why would your men steal from you?” Max wondered. She was sitting in Eleanor’s chair, drumming her fingers on Eleanor’s desk. “If they only waited a spell, they would have their share of gold, perhaps even more than they took yesterday. And would not be being hunted by their own crew now.”

“Are we saying that they stole it?” asked Rackham. “Perhaps they were attacked themselves.”

“I’d agree,” said Silver slowly, “except that Miss Guthrie went missing about the same time, and that it’s Dufresne. He’s been sore about you, Captain.”

“Why take Eleanor?” Vane wondered. He was pacing like a trapped cat. “They can’t imagine we’ll ransom her, surely?”

Billy had been quiet and thoughtful, and took in a sharp breath now. “Not to us,” he said. “Not for the gold.”

“Billy?” said James.

“I didn’t tell you how I escaped from the Scarborough, did I,” said Billy. And he told them about it, in brief, clinical terms: the days staked out on the sand, the eventual reprieve, the ten pardons to pay for Captain Flint. “I told Dufresne all of it,” he said. “He can’t get Flint, so he’s taken the next best thing, and he means to run for it before England comes to take the island back.”

“Why tell Dufresne?” wondered Rackham. “He’s the one with the eyes, correct? Never struck me as much of a threat.”

“He’s got more spine than you’d expect,” muttered Flint. “What he doesn’t have is a ship. Is he keeping her on the island?”

“He may have a partner,” said Max. “I will speak with my girls.”

“Silver, canvass the beach,” said Flint. “Billy, I want the rest of that gold in the fort, and see if anyone on the crew spoke to Dufresne or his little gang of defectors.”

“I’ve got my lads keeping an eye on the bay in case someone tries to run for it,” said Vane. “If comes to a hunt, Jack, are you with us?”

“Traitors and spies and stolen gold?” said Rackham. “Like a shot. But there had better be profit in it. My crew’s too damn new for loyalty.”

“Has anyone seen Mr Guthrie since yesterday?” Max wondered. “Perhaps he ought to be informed.”

There was a moment of silence as they pondered this. “Well,” said Charles, “I’m not wasting time on that.”

“Likewise,” said Rackham. “I’m sure the little ingrate will turn up.”

“We are in agreement, then,” said Max, with a touch of smugness. “Reconvene here if anything is found, yes?”

 

James wanted nothing more than to return to the quiet sunny room with Miranda and Thomas, but when emerged from Eleanor’s office he found them sitting in the taproom over plates of fish stew and bread, talking with Eme.

“James, there you are,” said Miranda. “Eme was just telling us that Mr Scott was here looking for you earlier.”

Eme bobbed a nervous curtsey. “I didn’t wish to interrupt you, sir,” she said. “Mr Scott was quite agitated. He says that Captain Hornigold sailed away last night without half his crew, all of a sudden. They hadn’t even taken on supplies, just one boat of rations.”

“Hornigold?” said James. Without his being aware of it, his hand had come to rest on the back of Thomas’ chair, thumb brushing his shoulder. “That’s - huh.”

“Mr Scott has always been fond of Miss Guthrie, I understand,” said Miranda lightly. “He oversaw her education, did he not?”

“He did,” said James. “Thank you, Eme. Did Mr Scott say where he would be going?”

“He went to the fort to look for Captain Vane,” said Eme. “But that was before Captain Vane came here.”

“If he returns, let me know immediately.”

“If Dufresne’s conspired with Hornigold,” said Vane from behind him, “that is quite a problem.”

“You don’t say,” said Flint. His mind was working, ticking over possibilities and plans. “The Lion was damaged when you took the fort, correct? He’ll have poor speed unless he wants to risk scuppering himself.”

“Don’t see that it matters how fast he fucking goes,” said Vane. “He’s over the horizon, no notion what bearing. Morning, your lordship. Ladyship.”

“Good morning,” said Thomas. “So this Hornigold person has stolen your Miss Guthrie?”

“Perhaps,” said James. “As well as some of my gold.”

“Our gold,” said Vane immediately, then, “Wait, no. It was definitely your share he took.”

“Fuck’s sake,” said James. “You realise that if it’s _our_ share, you’ve got an excuse to chase after her?”

Vane squinted crossly and made an uncomfortable motion with his shoulders.

He got to sit and eat with Miranda and Thomas, at least, with his foot hooked around Thomas’ beneath the table. The joy of it was barely diminished at all by Vane deciding to join them at the table and grin expectantly at the three of them and smoke his foul cigarillos. Thomas seemed to barely note his presence, instead trading fond secretive smiles with James, while Miranda seemed in a mood to indulge him.

Mr Scott returned while they were finishing up their meal, and Max shortly after, and they held another impromptu meeting right there in the taproom, to Thomas’ obvious interest. “Some of Hornigold’s men did leave abruptly,” said Max. “The ones he trusted, perhaps.”

Mr Scott was leashing his agitation better than Flint might have managed, riding it all in his shoulders and the twitch of his hands. “There were some men who had served with him for years, in the fort and aboard ship,” he said. “Captain Hornigold had the capacity to be generous when it suited him, to those who were loyal.”

“Loyalty is a relative trait,” muttered Max.

“Do we have any idea where he was headed?” asked Flint. “Where is the Scarborough right now, still at Harbour Island?”

“I believe so,” said Scott. “Captain Hume has established a garrison there.”

“We can’t take on the garrison,” said Flint. “Billy tells me he’s got two hundred redcoats.”

“They won’t risk taking the gold there,” said Vane. “Two chests makes at least a hundred thousand in escudos, more if it’s doubloons. They won’t risk that falling into British hands if things go south with handing over Eleanor.”

Thomas made a small, startled noise at Vane’s estimate, and shot a wide-eyed look at James. He felt the back of his neck reddening; they hadn’t spoken of the ransom he’d paid, more money than even the Hamiltons could expect to see in a lifetime. Hearing _a hundred thousand dollars_ as a slight inconvenience to the whole would give Thomas a good idea of what, in specific cash terms, he was worth to James.

Scott hummed thoughtfully. “There is a small island off Eleuthura where Hornigold careens, near to Harbour Island. I have seen it on his maps. It would be a safe place to stash the goods until the deal is done.”

“He won’t have enough crew to guard it,” said Flint. “Not and sail the ship.”

“So it’s unguarded,” said Vane, “Or he takes a cutter and a small party from the _Lion_. It’s a short enough distance.”

“No guns on a cutter,” said Flint.

“The rest of the loot’ll be off the warship by noon,” said Charles.

“See you then,” said Flint.

Max sat back in her chair, looking disgruntled. “I should have known the two of you working together would be insufferable,” she said. “It will be good for business, I expect, but extremely annoying.”

“If Jack turns up again, let him know the plan,” said Vane, and finished the last of his drink before wandering off with a handful of plums he’d nicked from Miranda’s plate.

“I will try to track down as many of Hornigold’s crew as remain on the island,” said Scott. “They will not be pleased to have been cut out of this affair.” He bowed slightly to Miranda and took up his hat before following Vane, leaving Max look over the others with that too-knowing critical gaze.

“I understand some felicitations are in order, Mrs Barlow,” she said eventually. “I had understood that Mr Barlow had passed some years back, but here your husband sits.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows, but stayed silent, and Miranda produced the inscrutable smile that had seen her through many a London drawing room. “That’s very kind of you, Mistress Max. And how is your new business venture proceeding? Such a changeable market these days.”

Max inclined her head, the corner of her mouth curling up. “Promising, madame. Very promising. I have high hopes.”

“I leave you alone here for a week,” complained James. “A week, Miranda.”

“I have to entertain myself somehow,” said Miranda, taking a sip of her watered-down ale and grimacing. “Max has been very welcoming. She and Miss Guthrie both have such interesting insights into life here.”

“It has been pleasant to have such company,” Max purred. “Mrs Barlow and I find we have much to discuss. Many interests in common.”

James was tired just listening to this conversation. “I should make the _Walrus_ ready to sail,” he said. He looked at Thomas, dared to squeeze his shoulder despite the morning drunks at the bar and the doors open onto the street. “It will be a short trip. One day, perhaps two.”

“Ten years,” said Thomas gently. “I believe a day will be bearable, if only just.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun information about the treasure in Black Sails: all the characters talk about “Pieces of eight” and “Spanish dollars” when talking about the loot, but the Spanish eight-real (dollar) coin was silver, not gold. An escudo (worth 16 real, or two dollars) or a doubloon (32 real) are likelier culprits, though everyone counted in dollars because they were a dependable unit of currency in trading circles at the time, and were later used as the basis for American currency. You can also see what looks like bars of gold in some scenes with the Urca gold, though precisely how useful that might have been in the colonies is debatable. Either way, while there may have been five million dollars worth of gold, there were definitely not five million coins.


	4. Charles Vane Doesn't Talk About His Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a series of conversations. None of them are about feelings. The plot, such as it is, thickens.

It took Charles a moment, when Jack showed up at the dock ready to set out, to realise what was wrong: Jack looked somehow lopsided, as if he hadn’t finished combing his hair.

“Where’s Anne?”

Jack looked uncomfortable. “Back at the brothel, with Max.”

Charles waited for further explanation. None was forthcoming.

“I know she doesn’t much like Eleanor, but I didn’t think she was so daft as to let you go off with untried crew without her.”

“Hey,” said the man at Jack’s elbow, a portly bearded fellow Charles vaguely recognised. “We are not an untried crew. If anything, Captain Rackham is an untried Captain.”

“The crew wasn’t comfortable,” said Jack hastily, “with having Anne aboard at the moment. Given her, well, recent history.”

Charles stared at him. “Jack.”

“I know.”

“ _ Jack _ .”

“I  _ know _ ,” Jack all but wailed.

“She is going to kill you.”

“It’s only temporary!”

“She is going to burn everything you love.”

“When she calms down she’ll see that it’s for the best,” Jack insisted.

“Remember when I first took you on? I suggested that maybe you’d want to leave your girl behind?”

“She’s grown up since then,” said Jack. 

“She tried to stab me in the balls,” said Charles. “She’s going to kill you.”

Jack groaned. “I know! What choice do I have? I have a ship and a crew and all I have to do is leave her behind for a while! You think I’m not aware of what a shitheel that makes me? Christ.” He looked so dejected that Charles almost felt sorry for him.

“We can’t have a crew killer aboard,” said Jack’s quartermaster - Featherball? Whiskertits? “What if she decides to turn on us?”

“You’re a moron,” Charles informed both of them. “Don’t come crying to me when she cuts your tongues out.”

Jack made a disgusted, fearful noise, and hunched his shoulders.

 

Three ships wasn’t a fleet, but sailing in consort took a lot of the risk out: with the  _ Walrus _ , the  _ Colonial Dawn _ , and the Spanish warship Charles hadn’t named yet united in purpose, they were fair unstoppable by any force in the region - on the ocean, at any rate.

They found the  _ Lion  _ right where Mr Scott had predicted, wallowing in the shallow bay of a tiny island north of Eleuthera. The skeleton crew aboard - four men - surrendered immediately. The two men ashore with the heavy chests put up a token fight, and by sundown they had the gold aboard the warship and the  _ Lion  _ foundering in the bay, burning merrily, and her crew stranded on the empty beach. The three captains met up on the deck of the warship to discuss their next move. 

“Nabbing Hornigold should be easy enough, when he returns,” said Jack as they watched one of the aft compartments in the Lion explode. “Slip around that headland and lie in wait. He’ll put up no fight in a cutter.”

“No chance of catching him before he hands Eleanor over to the garrison,” said Charles.

Flint stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “I’d rather not take on a protracted siege at this stage,” he said mildly.

“Yes,” said Charles, “we know.” He couldn’t currently summon the proper bite and sarcasm Flint’s moon-eyes deserved, not when Hornigold was such a shit.

A moment of silence passed. With a great groan, the smoking remains of the Lion tipped sharply sideways and started to slip under the water.

Flint sighed. “Can’t very well let them hang her, either.” When there was no response, he nudged Jack.

Jack jumped as if he’d been stung. “No! Right. Of course not. She’s, well, she’s a valuable part of the island’s economy.”

“Richard hasn’t half her ambition,’ said Flint solemnly.

“She’s really quite indispensable,” said Jack.

“Can both of you fucking stop acting like you need to talk me into this,” snapped Charles.

“I’m glad we’re all in agreement,” said Jack.

 

Hornigold returned with the dawn, and had the nerve to try and parlay with them when they sprung their trap. Charle took a vicious pleasure in holing his cutter and watching it sink slowly while his crew of ingrates muddled about in the water. Most of them he left to swim back to the tiny unnamed island, but he was sure to put a bullet into Hornigold’s silver head. It was too easy for satisfaction. Hornigold was clever when he had time to plan, but he was no tactician, and too confident in his escape, he put up hardly any fight worth the mention of it.

The  _ Walrus  _ pulled a dripping crewman out of the water, and by the time Charles had got over there, the man was splayed on the deck snivelling, while the inscrutable crewman with the long dark hair sat Indian-style in front of him, watching.

“Dufresne,” said Wee Billy kindly. “All you have to do is tell us what you know and Joji will leave you be. What are the British planning to do with Miss Guthrie?” Joji had produced a long, curved knife from somewhere and was idly cleaning his fingernails.

It was unfair, Charles thought, that Flint somehow managed to get all the terrifying and competent crew members while he had to make do with sadistic landsmen. Anne at least had been terrifying. He added Joji to his list of people to poach whenever Flint let his guard down.

“You’re too late!” squealed Dufresne. “They put her on a ship yesterday, near as soon as we arrived with her! She’s halfway to Charlestown by now!”

That seemed to be the whole of it, more-or-less, and despite Joji’s prodding and Billy’s gentle questions, the unlucky Dufresne was lobbed back over the side to fend for himself without divulging any further information.

“If we can’t besiege the garrison on Harbour Island,” said Flint, “we definitely can’t besiege Charlestown.”

“Well, not with that attitude,” said Jack. “Can we catch them?”

“Across open water?” said Charles. “Nah.”

“Ashe will never give her up,” said Flint, frowning. “The man’s a fucking fanatic for hanging pirates, and he’s properly fortified there.”

Charles squinted at him, memory tickling at the back of his mind. “Your lord,” he said. “Was on his way to Charlestown when Low took him. He knows Ashe, doesn’t he?”

Flint’s face went stony. “He did. We both did, years ago.”

“S’right. You and your high halls of power.”

“Goodness,” said Jack. “This does sound like a story Max will kill me if I don’t dig out of you.”

“I don’t think it will do much good,” said Flint. “It’s been ten years and more since either of us saw him, and that was a different time. We were different people.”

“That’s a shit excuse,” Charles informed him. “Can you be useful or not?”

Flint sighed. “Maybe. I’d have to talk to Thomas.”

“In the meantime,” said Jack, “may I suggest that while we may not be able to besiege Charlestown, we can certainly make life difficult for any ships entering or leaving, can’t we? If Ashe is so damned proud of his little trading hub, let’s disrupt the flow of trade.”

“Not as if we’ll be getting any other leads, with Eleanor gone,” said Charles. “Might as well push some of the other crews into it too, just for fun.”

“Good god,” said Jack thoughtfully. “The three of us working together might just set the fucking sea on fire.”

Flint grinned. “Confusion to our fucking enemies.”

Charles arranged with a couple of his crew to have the gold loaded back onto the Walrus. If Flint was heading back to Nassau, he could secure it in the fort, and Charles would feel more comfortable not having it on board while they were hunting.

“You might need it, if it comes to ransom,” said Jack and Charles shook his head.

“He wouldn’t pay the ransom, even if it were an option,” Flint pointed out.

“What the fuck is it to you?” snarled Charles.

Flint only shrugged. “Nothing. You’ll start a war, I’ll pay a ransom - and we both prefer it that way.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t start a fucking war,” said Charles, and treasured the surprise on Flint’s face.

 

As they were preparing to return to their own ships, Charles said to Jack, “When I get back to Nassau I’m taking Anne on, you know?”

“What the fuck did you do?” said Flint, leaning over the railing. “Is Anne Bonny looking for a crew to take her on?”

“No, fuck off,” said Charles. “I get first refusal on Anne, you stay out of it.”

“She’s not going to need a crew,” Jack insisted. “This is a temporary situation, she’ll be back on board in no time!”

“You didn’t kick her off,” said Flint, astonished. “She’s going to kill you.”

“That’s what I said!” Charles gloated. “You still don’t get Anne, get your own murder-wench.”

“If she hears you calling her a wench I suspect I  _ will  _ get Anne,” said Flint, grinning. Good cheer on that face was fucking unnatural. Charles made a rude gesture.

 

The difficulty, of course, was that it was actually a good thing that Eleanor had ended their relationship, as fucking lost as he got in her. Being at odds with her was so much simpler than whatever the fuck went on went they were fucking. He made stupid fucking decisions when she addled his wits, and they didn’t feel stupid at the time - walking away from Teach had felt like stepping into the sunlight, whatever the consequences had been later.

Starting a war with the Carolina colony might be one of those decisions, Charles thought, but he’d gone ahead and jumped in feet-first anyway. It was so telling that the only thing he would let take Eleanor Guthrie away from him was Eleanor herself - anybody else tried, it was seeming more and more like he’d tear the world apart to get her back.

From the lookout above, the cry went up: sails on the horizon. The  _ Dawn  _ was to the bow of them, and the misty Carolina coast far, far to the stern.

Time to hunt.


	5. Anne Bonny Makes a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left at loose ends by Jack's abandonment, Anne makes a new friend, and only horribly murders people who deserve it.

“Hey,” said the portly, balding man in the inn’s taproom. “Guess you’ll have to take up proper women’s work now your daddy’s gone and left you. Finally got too much for him to handle, eh?” He winked, and grabbed at the front of her shirt.

Afterwards, Idelle gently sent Anne outside with a bottle of rum to cool down while she and Charlotte cleaned up the blood. The luckless sailor - some unfortunate on Carter’s crew - was tossed onto the street to fend for himself, once the spike had been retrieved from his cheek, where it was wedged between the back of his teeth.

She’d been aiming for his eye. This week was shit.

Rum, rum had never abandoned her. Anne bit the cork from the bottle and slumped into a chair on the porch, kicking her feet out. Patrons coming into the inn gave her a wide berth, most of them. Blood on her sleeves still. Most weren’t as stupid as the one with the spike through his face.

“This isn’t the tavern,” said one, gazing quizzically up at the inn. “Is it?”

“Behind you,” Anne grunted. “This’s the whorehouse.”

“Ah,” he said, spinning on his heel. “Much obliged. The bridge had me fooled.”

“You’re Flint’s man, ain’t you,” she said before he could walk away. “The one he was all cut up over ransoming.”

The man paused, and turned back to her warily. “So I’m told,” he said. “Thomas. And you are?”

“Anne.”

“Pleasure, I’m sure.”

She toasted her bottle at him. “Where’s he fucked off to, then? Pay two million to get a man back, you’d think he’d stick around and get his money’s worth.”

“Two _million_ ,” said Thomas. “Christ almighty. That would be the Spanish haul everyone’s talking of, I suppose.”

“S’pose.” Thomas had sat down opposite her at the little table, staring out into the street. He looked - distressed? Maybe? Anne wasn’t the best at expressions. Max would have known.

“Well,” said Thomas, after apparently thinking about it hard. “I expect I can afford to get some new boots, then. James’ are rather small for me.”

“There’s a cobbler up the street,” said Anne, “but closed after sundown.”

“Obviously,” said Thomas. “You’re a sailor, then? A pirate?”

“Yeah.”

“What ship?”

“No ship.” She knocked back some more rum, then said, “Fuck off,” as an afterthought.

“Right.”

Above them, a door opened, and two figures stepped out onto the bridge from the tavern side, skirts brushing against the weathered planks. “I don’t see him,” said Flint’s woman, peering down the darkening street.

“He will not have gotten far,” said Max, in her lovely voice. Voice like rum, all warm and shivery-making.

“I’m here, Miranda,” Thomas called. “Just making friends.”

“Darling! Alright?”

“Quite.”

“All is well, mon coeur?” called Max, leaning over the railing.

“She means you, I think,” said Thomas in an undertone when Anne didn’t respond. She waved the half-empty bottle of rum in answer, and Max sighed.

“Come in for dinner, will you not? We have much to discuss, along with our guests.”

Anne only shrugged in answer, as Miranda and Max returned to the lighted room they’d emerged from.

“I would guess,” said Thomas, “that dinner is going to be yet another fish stew?”

“Might be pork tonight,” said Anne. “Potatoes. Better’n shipboard fare.”

“God yes,” said Thomas vehemently. “No more weeviled hardtack and increasingly watered- down gruel for me, not ever.” When he stood he made a curious motion, turning as if he was going to offer her his hand to rise, like she was some fine lady. She rolled to her feet unassisted instead, and sucked down another mouthful of rum as she followed him across the street and into the tavern.

“What was that she called me before,” she said in a low voice. “Mon co-something. Don’t speak French.”

“‘Mon coeur,’ she says, ‘My heart,’” said Thomas. “Lovely language, French.” The last bit of rum went shivery-warm and thrilling right down to Anne’s toes, and her face was warm as she stepped into the pleasant room Miranda and Thomas had rented.

“My _wife_ ,” said Thomas happily, catching her by the waist as she laughed. “It smells good in here.”

“Eme has brought up some roasted pork,” said Miranda, wriggling from his embrace. Thomas grinned at Anne like they shared a secret as they sat down to the meal, as if pork instead of fish had been everything needed to make his day complete.

The talk over dinner was mostly between Max and the woman who was both Flint’s witch and Thomas’s wife. It was the kind of polite talk Anne hated because it was so hard to tell if they were being friendly or ready to kill each other. She made Jack do the talking when it got like that so she didn’t say the wrong thing, and waited for him to tell her when someone needed stabbing or threatening.

But Jack was gone, and she wasn’t following this conversation at all; she gnawed moodily at her pork chop and wished she’d grabbed another bottle downstairs, wished she’d gone down to the beach instead of staying by the tavern where Max could draw her in so easily. Even Thomas had joined the conversation once he had wolfed down his meal, asking Max about how business ran on an island with no banks or government, which led into a complicated discussion of economics and trade that Anne was completely unable to follow: gold in the pocket was the only value she could be bothered with; gold and a ship to get more.

“But we are boring Anne,” said Max eventually. “I am sorry to have neglected you. Idelle has told me you have had a difficult day.”

“Took care of it,” said Anne.

“I can imagine,” said Max, smiling. “My girls will sleep a little sounder tonight without such a man to trouble them.”

Anne slouched. “Don’t reckon _they’d_ have been troubled,” she muttered.

“Your discerning taste is to your credit,” said Miranda. “And certainly a man who grabs without asking is no good for business, even in that establishment.”

“I quite agree,” said Max. “Former proprietors have been so lax about that sort of thing. As in most matters, clarity and agreement on terms ahead of time is good for business.” She pressed her little dainty hands to Anne’s. “I am obliged to you, ma cherie.”

Anne shot a helpless look at Thomas, who mouthed something at her, his eyes crinkling at edges. She shrugged, not understanding him. “No trouble,” she said to Max.

“I imagine the rest of the clientele will be well-behaved for a while, as well,” said Thomas.

“If only it were so easy to keep pirates in line,” Max sighed. “I would have Anne stalk the bar with a blade every night. Alas, I must selflessly keep her with me.”

“A very great sacrifice,” said Miranda. “Anne is quite a saint to tolerate you.”

Max’s face became serious and she squeezed Anne’s hand. “No, I will not tease her about this. I am glad to have you close, Anne, though I know you are unhappy at your present circumstance.”

Anne extricated her hand and stared at the table.

After a moment, Miranda said gently, “This wine is lovely, Max, is it made here on the island?”

“No,” said Max,  in a subdued voice. “No, it is French, taken from a prize.”

Anne shook her head and stood, knocking her chair over with a clatter. Max said her name, quietly.

There was rum downstairs, so downstairs she went, shutting the door behind her so Max and her friends could keep having their quiet clever talk over French wine.

 

The next morning she woke in the back room of the whorehouse with a blanket over her and feeling like shit. Somebody - Max - had left a jug of water and a sweet bun on the table for her. She devoured both and went back to sleep.

When she woke again she felt less queasy and headachey, but no less like shit. Max was upstairs in her old room, reading a letter, and she smiled when Anne came in. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” said Anne. “Sorry.”

Max waved it off. “I should not have pressed you. I know that you are not in good spirits and I would not have you think of my company as another trial for you.”

“You’re not,” said Anne, and flopped down on Max’s soft bed and thought about what to say. “Don’t have much right now,” she said. “Income, ship, crew.” Jack.

“I know,” said Max. “I had meant to ask you a favour, actually, but I was not sure it would be welcome.”

“Fuck, please,” said Anne, sitting up. “Gimme something to do.” She wasn’t bored or anything, but sitting around and thinking about her fucking feelings and being angry at Jack got old real fast.

Max smiled. “I am thinking of how to expand our enterprise. We cannot rely on scavenged leads from Eleanor forever - or perhaps at all, anymore. We must seek to expand our own network outside of Nassau, and you, I think, are in a perfect position to do so, yes?”

She explained what she intended, and when she was done, Anne said “Yeah, I could do that.”

“Tres bien!” said Max, and then, “What troubles you?”

Max was maybe a witch. “Don’t speak French,” mumbled Anne.

Something soft and complicated happened to Max’s expression, and she left her desk to come and sit beside Anne. “Shall I teach you? _Tres bien_ only means _very good_ .” She cupped a hand under Anne’s chin. “You say, _embrasse moi_ . Say it, _embrasse moi_.”

“Embrasse moi.” Anne couldn’t get it sounding right. Her tongue didn’t roll like Max’s, and sounds that were soft and throaty in Max’s mouth were awkward in Anne’s.

“Oui, tres bien,” said Max and kissed her quickly.

“What does it mean?” Anne said, her nose rubbing against Max’s soft cheek.

“It is a request, a command,” said Max. “ _Embrasse_ ,” she touched her thumb to Anne’s lips, “ _moi_ ,” drew her in again, and Anne’s noise of comprehension was all but lost.

 

Anne went that afternoon with Thomas down to the beach, because he found her at the brothel and asked for her company, and she was too surprised to refuse.

“Miranda says I’m mad for not resting in the heat of the day,” he said, kicking at the sand. “But James said he’d only be gone for a day or two, do you think he might be back this afternoon?”

Nassau to Harbor Island and back. “Maybe.”

“What does his ship look like?”

“ _Walrus_ is a brig. Square rig, two-masted.” Thomas looked blank. She pointed out at the bay. “See the _Eglatine_ , there? Square sails like that, but two masts instead of three. Gaff rigged fore-and-aft - they’re the littler triangle ones off the mainsail. Makes for better maneuverability in the wind. She’s quick and tough, fully gunned.”

Thomas nodded seriously. “Sounds very impressive,” he said.

Anne tipped her hat back and looked at his face. “You got no fuckin’ clue what I just said.”

“None,” said Thomas. “I’m not nautically minded in the slightest. But when James returns I will be able to tell him that I have heard his ship is fast and maneuverable, and hope he doesn’t ask followup questions.”

Anne put her head down so he couldn’t see her laughing at him. “ _Walrus_ usually anchors around there,” she told him, pointing. “If they’re coming from Harbor Island you’ll see’m around that headland first.”

Thomas’s eyes fixed to the headland immediately, as if he could make the Walrus appear by wanting it. The were up the beach a bit, the opposite end from opium wrecks, and a bit away from most of the camps. It wasn’t exactly private, but it was quiet enough. She said, without quite meaning to, “So how’s that work, anyway? You and him, and you and her?”

Thomas went very still, and then gave her the kind of looked that made her squirm: sort of searching and intent, like he could see right through her.

“Do you know,” he said, “I’m not sure anymore. I could have told you ten years ago, but now…” he looked out again at the headland, where the _Walrus_ might appear. “They’ve built a life here without me,” he said eventually. “They’ll fit me in somewhere, I don’t doubt, but as yet I have no idea what that will look like.”

Anne frowned. “They left you behind, did they?”

“Yes. They had to.”

“Pricks.”

He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t look offended. “I told them to. It was the right choice, and then they thought I was dead, anyway.”

“Ain’t you mad about it, though? Them picking each other?”

He was watching the ocean. “They didn’t choose each other, they made the best of the situation, and they would have come for me if they’d known I was alive.”

“But you’re still angry.”

“Yes.”

“How -”

The wind shifted, and something made her turn her head in time to catch the club swinging towards it. She ducked, and her knife was in her hand, and Thomas made an odd, startled sound.

The fight might have been quick, against one or two men, but there were five, and one of the had grabbed Thomas by the neck while she was distracted. Anne took a blow to the ribs and wrenched her knee, cut one throat, low slice across a belly entrails in the sand, knuckles split down the bone, heavy thud of her body slamming into someone.

Fighting was so easy, so clean and simple. No secrets, no words, no tests of loyalty or confusing emotions, just strength and speed pitted one against the other until something gave. Two, three - the big one with the rusty sabre swung wild and Anne dropped low and tight and shattered his knee with vicious kick.

“I’ll cut his fucking throat,” said the one holding Thomas. His sword wasn’t right for the job, too big for precision, poorly cared for, likely blunt. Thomas was pale, but steady, watching Anne carefully.

“You know who you got there,” she said. Her mouth was bleeding. “That’s Captain Flint’s man.”

“Yeah,” said the man. “And he’ll pay to get him back, won’t he?”

“Nah,” said Anne. “Killin’s cheap.”

The sword went wide with outrage, and Thomas wrenched himself free - not far, but far enough for Anne’s purposes. The shitty blunt sword clipped her temple, left her ears ringing, and her little dagger sunk into his chest with the peculiar noise that meant she’d hit a lung. The last attacker dropped, wheezing, cursing at her. He didn’t know he was dead yet; it’d take a few hours, maybe, but he was no threat now.

“Are you alright?” said Thomas, edging warily into her field of vision.

Anne considered it. Later, she would hurt, she knew.  “Could use a drink,” she said, and Thomas made a disbelieving noise like almost a laugh.

“I believe I owe you one, at that,” he said. “And I suspect I should get somewhere out of the public view.”

“Right,” said Anne. “before anyone else gets a bright fuckin’ idea.”


	6. James Gets the Backstory and Some Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Walrus returns to Nassau

The Walrus anchored offshore at around sunset, to the tuneful sounds of DeGroot and Billy ganging up on Captain Flint about the state of the hull.

“I’m aware we can’t take on a long voyage until the hull is better repaired, Mr DeGroot,” said Flint, as patiently as he could with the headache building behind his eyes. “That’s one of the reasons we came back to Nassau instead of joining Vane and Rackham hunting.”

DeGroot folded his arms. “Well. Good.” He sniffed crossly. “We shouldn’t have gone out at all. That patch we did won’t hold forever.”

“Yes,” said Flint, “I know.” He met Billy’s amused gaze. “Would you be so kind, Mr DeGroot, as to look into an appropriate venue for careening?”

“Right you are, Captain,” said DeGroot, mollified.

“Billy -”

“The gold, I know,” said Billy. “And you’ll be in town. Do you mind if I give the crew shore leave? They’ve got all this gold to spend, you see.”

“Fine,” said Flint. “But if they spend it all, there’s no more until the accounting’s done, which could be some time. Oh, speak to Vane’s men about that, would you? I’d like to get it underway.”

“Yes, Captain. Will I find you at the tavern if you’re needed?”

Ten years of piracy had trained James out of showing emotions like embarrassment. Mostly. “Probably,” he said. “If I’m not there, I’ll leave word of where you can find me.” Halfway out the door, he turned back and called “Take Silver up to the fort with you, see if he can put that smart mouth to use.”

“Right.”

It was poor form for the captain to be on the first launch. James managed to look busy until the third was loading up, and the crew all very kindly pretended that his eagerness was well-disguised, the bastards.

But careening for repairs meant possibly weeks ashore. Even if he spent his days being a diligent Captain, overseeing repairs and finances and sniffing out new prizes, that still meant weeks of evenings and nights with Thomas. Weeks in which there would be no need for a young Naval lieutenant to sneak back to his quarters in the wee hours or invent increasingly implausible excuses to remain at the Hamilton’s home, no interminable social engagements or salons to eat up their evenings with endless circular debate and political elbowing, free of fear and with gossip inconsequential to them.

A future yawned large in front of him. Thomas alive and free and in Nassau, with James and Miranda. There was no Lord Hamilton, no disapproving London society, no Royal Navy, just the clean unhurried years rolling out ahead for the three of them here. James was dizzy thinking about it.

Weeks, he told himself. Three weeks at least to get the Walrus shipshape again. Three weeks with Thomas. That much he could fit into his head; the shape of those three weeks. That, at least, wasn’t too overwhelming. Along with the ever-increasing list of things to do: secure and count the gold, strengthen the fort, rescue Eleanor, make Nassau strong and independent. That last one, at least, seemed abruptly far less impossible than it had a few weeks back. 

“Have a pleasant evening, Captain,” Muldoon said cheekily, as he leapt eagerly from the boat onto the dock. James didn’t dignify it with a response, and did his best to move through the streets at a pace slower than an undignified scamper.

It was a quiet evening, or what passed for one in Nassau. James encountered no brawls, drunks or dead bodies on his way up to the tavern, and the noise and light spilling out onto the street from there and the brothel opposite was cheery and raucous, unconcerned.

Thomas was at the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with a hatless Anne Bonny, watching the room over the rim of his cup. His eyes lit up when he saw James, and it was almost enough to distract from the bruises on his jaw and throat, or Anne’s swollen face.

“What the fuck happened?” he said, which was not at all how he had intended on greeting Thomas again.

“Someone from Wallen’s crew had a clever idea,” said Anne. She was holding the cool tankard to the bruised side of her face. “You may want to keep a closer eye on your man, here.”

“Shit,” said James, but Thomas was smiling down at him.

“I won’t go wandering on the beach again,” he said. “But I’m quite alright. Anne was rather terrifying.”

Anne grunted. “Left one alive,” she said. “You want me to go get him?”

“I’ll thank you not to encourage him,” said Miranda, appearing from out of nowhere with a steaming mug between her hands. “Drink this, it’ll help with the swelling,” she told Anne, passing it over.

“One out of how many?” asked James. Somehow his hand had found Thomas’ and he was clutching it tightly

Anne shrugged one shoulder, winced at the movement. “Five? You get Eleanor?”

“They’ve taken her to Charlestown,” said James. Thomas’ fingers tightened hard on his, and Miranda made a discontent noise. “Jack and Vane are making trouble to try and shake the governor down.”

“If you’ll excuse us, Anne,” said Thomas. “Will you update Max?”

Anne waggled her mug of tea at them. “Evenin’.”

Their room above the tavern was the same, except for a pile of clothing and boots on the table, and the rumpled, unmade bed. As soon as the door was closed he had Thomas on him, warm soft hands at his cheek and throat. “I was wrong,” said Thomas, and kissed him. He wore only a thin shirt, and James could feel the warmth of his ribs under his palms. “One day was too long. Are you staying?”

“For a while.” Thomas made a soft, pleased noise and pressed him up against the closed door, and they stayed like that for a while, slowly unwinding into each other. 

“We had better talk,” said Thomas at length, but James chased his mouth and drew him back in, and would have stayed all night like that if Miranda hadn’t cleared her throat.

“When you have a moment, would one of you help me with my stays?” 

James smiled and pressed his nose to the line of Thomas’ jaw, and said “Coming, my sweet.”

Miranda was perfectly capable of getting herself out of her stays; she had long since adopted the simpler spiral-laced sort preferred by ladies of the lower classes who had no maids to dress them. James undid her anyway, plucking at the cords from her hip all the way up to beneath her arm until she took a deep, grateful breath and smiled over her shoulder at him.

When she was down to her shift, and the men had taken off their boots and outer layers, they all sat together on the wide messy bed. Thomas lay his head in Miranda’s lap and curled a hand around James’ knee, thumb stroking tenderly along the back of the joint.

“I should tell you about Peter,” said Thomas, when they had been lying there long enough that the candles were burning low.

“Peter?” James touched his fine fair hair, and Thomas turned his face into it.

“I have told Miranda a little, but not all of it.”

“You don’t need to,” said Miranda. “I’m sure it can wait, my love.”

Thomas sighed, and closed his eyes beneath their petting. “Peter came to see me, when I had been in Bethlem a year or so,” he said. “He told me - he told me a lot of things. I don’t remember them all. But he told me that he had encouraged my father to separate the three of us. He believed that pursuing the course was foolish, and the breaking us apart was the best way to prevent a bad end.”

Thomas’ face was hidden from James, suddenly, when Miranda leaned down to kiss him, the fall of her hair covering them both. He had that brief moment to compose his expression; this was not the time for Captain Flint’s rage.

“What bad end did he foresee?” he managed to say. “So much worse than what happened? Imprisonment, disgrace, banishment?”

“He said he never meant for it to be so bad,” said Thomas. “He cried pitifully and he begged my forgiveness.”

“And left you there,” said Miranda tightly.

“Yes,” said Thomas. “But that wasn’t the worst thing.” He took James’ hand between his own and kissed it, the scarred and swollen knuckles, the rough palm. “He told me your ship had been taken by pirates and you both had died.”

Thomas said it so calmly, cradling James’ hand to his cheek, the James had to look to Miranda to confirm he had heard correctly. Her face was as dark as his, her rage reflecting his own back. “Why in God’s name would he say that?” said James. “We wrote him when we arrived here to tell him we were settled.”

“We had hardly been here a month when he wrote us with news of Thomas’ death,” said Miranda. “I cannot help but feel it must have been calculated.”

“He can’t have predicted the effect it would have,” muttered James. That, they hadn’t yet discussed with Thomas; the blind searing rage and grief which had impelled his father’s murder. Did he know? Had Captain Flint’s reputation reached him?

“He should have,” said Thomas. “You always had a resentful temper, my love.” There was no censure in his tone, and when James dared to look, Thomas looked only content and calm. “After my father’s death, everything was out of sorts. He’d put it about that I was dead, apparently, or unfit to take the title, and nobody knew where I was. It took months after the news came in for Julius to settle everything, and months again after that for him to discover where I was and have me sent for.”

Julius Hamilton, the product of Alfred’s third marriage, had been away at Oxford when James had been in London, but Thomas and Miranda had always spoken of him with great fondness, as a pleasant and principled boy, if not overly bright. “He got you out of there.”

“Sweet lad,” said Thomas. “Wildly out of his depth with a seat in the Lords and estates to run. I believe I came out of my melancholy mostly to stop him from running himself into the ground.”

James gave in to the urge, and stretched out to lay himself alongside Thomas, with his head on Miranda’s thigh. Thomas made a pleased noise and turned to press them close together, and Miranda shifted and pushed his head to a more comfortable position before pulling the tie from his hair and scratching her fingers through it.

“You didn’t inherit,” said Miranda eventually.

“Julius,” murmured Thomas. “Every penny, and the seat. I was glad. I wanted to rest. I spent a year after leaving Bethlem resting at the Kent house.”

“You’ve always hated that house,” said Miranda.

“I hate it more now,” said Thomas. “I was sick and tired and determined to be miserable, and I ate everything I could and shuffled around in stocking feet and kept a terribly morose diary. I did need it, though, after Bethlem. Poor Julius cried when he saw me for the first time. He thought I was a ghost I was so thin and pale.”

He had to stop his story there for a minute so Miranda and James could assure themselves of his improved health; not until his flesh had been thoroughly inspected and pinched and his cheeks properly flushed up was he allowed to continue, somewhat breathless.

“I might have stayed there another year or longer. I was very unhappy, and quite decided to remain unhappy. But Julius came and begged for my assistance in some matter or other, I forget what. He was never brought up to be more than the spare, you see, and was quite out of his depth, and bit by bit I was drawn out, until one day I found myself reading every newssheet and writing half a dozen letters and solving tenant disputes and forgetting to be sad.” He tucked his head against James, as if he was trying to burrow beneath him.

“I’m glad,” said James. “I don’t like the thought of you, sad and alone.”

“I was frequently miserable,” Thomas assured him. “But I was busy. It helped. And Julius - my brother may be an angel. I wonder where he got it from; his mother was appalling.”

“An excellent example in his older brother, perhaps,” said Miranda. Above them, she looked like a painting of the Virgin in the candlelight, with her kind, shining eyes. “What brought you to Nassau? Or Charlestown, rather?”

“About a year ago, Julius and I were going through some of Father’s papers and things in his London house. I found some correspondence between him and Peter from aught-six or so. Of course the reminder threw me into a frenzy of dreadful feelings; I had half-forgotten Peter’s confession, you know.”

Outside, there was shouting and whooping down in the street, and something fell with a crash. James slipped his hand beneath Thomas’s untucked shirt, rested it against his belly.

“It was much worse than he had confessed to me, once I had a clear enough mind to understand what I read. He had given my father enough information to have me and james both hung, had things gone differently. There were signed witness statements in Father’s safe, evidence of - of money changing hands, and other promises made. The Governorship. He’d sold us wholesale.”

“You were going to confront him?” asked James. An understandable reaction; in his own chest was a burning desire to sail for Charlestown immediately and spend every ounce of gunpowder he had on it.

“I was. But then I found a reference in one letter to Miranda - I won’t repeat the language used, darling, but I was sure they meant you - about the situation being resolved, and  _ the woman _ having no inclination of leaving her current circumstance. I could hardly believe it.” He turned his face up to smile at Miranda. “My wife! I abandoned Julius quite cruelly and got myself aboard the first ship to Charlestown I could, with every intent of blackmailing Peter into revealing your location.”

“And then you were set upon by pirates,” said James. “And then  _ they  _ were set upon by different pirates.”

“And I was sold to yet another pirate,” said Thomas, “so now I am yours, and that is the end of the story.” He sealed it with a kiss to the bridge of James’ nose, looking quite satisfied.

“Not quite,” said Miranda. She upset their cosy embrace to remove herself as their pillow, and lay down beside them instead, curling against Thomas’ back. “I think we should go and blackmail Peter anyway, don’t you?”

“Probably,” said James. “But the  _ Walrus  _ is laid up for a few weeks now, at least. I can send a letter with anything relevant to Vane with the next ship going that way.” He’d have to make a point of directing other crews toward the Charlestown shipping lanes in any case; one of them could probably take a letter. He’d have Silver ask around on the beach for likely leads. Perhaps they could leverage the gold in some way -

“Tomorrow,” murmured Thomas, and James’ heart quickened. “Tomorrow. Not tonight.” He felt himself blush at the way Thomas was watching him, soft-eyed and longing, as if it were that first time all those years and oceans ago.

“I’ve no intention -” he began, but Thomas was kissing him, and the breath was quite driven from his lungs.


	7. Charles Moves the Plot Along

The _Fair Weather_ had brought news from Nassau, supplies, and a letter.

“Captain Flint sends his apologies,” said Captain Theren. He was a tall man, dark haired and sallow, who ran a solid unremarkable crew and kept out of the politicking of the island. “Saw the _Walrus_ crew scoping for a careening spot when I left.”

“Typical,” said Jack, who had come over to the warship when the Weather had come alongside. “Flint sits about getting his cock sucked while we do his dirty work.”

Charles tossed the letter at him, seal broken but unread. Jack was better for the reading stuff: he never needed to pause and puzzle out longer words or figure out how sentences stitched together, and he would frequently add colorful commentary to whatever he was reading.

“Dear Sirs, oh isn’t that nice,” said Jack. “Regrettably the Walrus, et cetera et cetera, secure and count the gold in co-operation with your men, fine. Ah. Max has taken over the running of the tavern and has provided a number of leads regarding Charlestown shipping routes, enclosed.” He flapped the pages attached to the letter in demonstration. “Thomas has provided intelligence regarding Ashe... governorship as a result of a rather large and dirty favour he did for one of the Lords Proprietor, now deceased. If we wish to unsettle him, tell him “James McGraw knows what you did, and you will pay in kind.” Who the fuck is James McGraw?”

Charles suspected he knew, but shrugged one shoulder. “Does it matter?”

“Walrus repairs expected to take some weeks, taken the liberty of purchasing additional two long guns for the fort from O’Connell, accounts to be settled at a later date.”

“Cheek,” said Charles.

“A bit crossed out here that looks like it might have been something daft like ‘looking forward to seeing you’,” said Jack, “Signed Flint. God, can you imagine communicating this way all the time?”

“No,” said Charles. “You write something back if you want. What’re the leads?”

Two solid leads, ship schedules due in Charlestown in the next week or so, and a half-dozen scraps of information that could be patched together into a pattern of likely departures, arrivals, and routes. Good intel, especially for prizes chosen for their destination port rather than the worth of their cargo. Charles at least had no need of worrying about making it worth his crew’s while; they were rich as fuck now, and enjoying the pirate’s life for the notoriety.

“You take this one,” said Charles, passing Jack the schedule of a ship carrying crates of tea and barrels of wine, among other things. Jack’s new crew was already suspicious of their business around Charlestown, and an infusion of easy loot should help to settle their grumbling. It was also a small but valuable enough haul that they could sell it in Port Royal without needing to use the Guthrie’s connections.

“I have other business in Boston,” Theren said, when Charles would have offered him a shot at the remaining prize. “Much obliged, though.”

“Tell me,” said Jack, before Theren left, “Did you see Anne Bonny in Nassau? It’s been some weeks.”

“Bonny?” said Theren, and the usually dour face cracked into a yellowing smile. “Oh, she’s gone, long gone.”

“Gone where?” said Jack, visibly appalled.

Theren shrugged. “Some say Port Royal, some say Antigua. Away.” He scratched his chin. “Killed half a dozen from Wallen’s crew before she went. Maybe she was worried about payback, nobody to watch her back.”

Once Jack had retreated, pale and muttering direly, Charles squinted at Theren. “Really though.”

Theren grinned again. “Ah, that whore Max has her all set up running business for her between the islands. Flint tried to poach her for his crew and she turned him down flat. Any man tries to touch her now, he’s not welcome at the brothel and can’t sell his goods anywhere on New Providence.”

Max, that fucking witch, had managed to use the same club Eleanor had crippled Charles with to shield Anne when even Jack couldn’t. Charles had been resolved to watch her closely since she took up with Eleanor, years ago, and she had never ceased to surprise him with her cunning and adaptability. Left in Nassau without real competition, there was a decent chance she’d rule them all if left alone too long. Especially if Anne was working with her.

“I’m not sure if this is going to be a problem,” said Charles thoughtfully, “or a big fucking opportunity.”

“Have fun finding out,” said Theren.

 

The hunt for the _Boudicia_ promised to occupy the next several weeks, and it wasn’t likely they’d make it back to Nassau in that time. There were towns along the coast which would do for supplies, so long as they weren’t overt about their colors. Charles could use the time to bully his landlubbing crew into shape. They did alright with prevailing winds and smooth sailing, but any complicated maneuvers or inclement weather was likely to set them on the back foot and leave them limp-sailed and drifting. Fucking embarrassing.

With a lot of cursing and direction, they actually managed to take the prize, by some miracle of weather and current Charles had every intention of taking credit for. The crew surrendered easily enough, and a couple of them even signed to the account. Things seemed to be going Charles’ way for once, but just as they were readying to cut free from the crippled prize, another set of sails were spotted on the horizon.

Several tense hours followed, as they cut away and set sail. The other ship gave chase, and Charles’ crew wasn’t quite up to the task of any tricks to get clear, so it gained on them. It wasn’t a Navy ship, and showed no other colours until it was close enough that Charles could see the crew on deck without the aid of a glass. On the quarterdeck was a figure who tugged at the strings of his memory in a frustrating way.

The black went up, and the man on the quarterdeck of the pursuing ship turned.

“Fucking shit,” said Charles, and talked his shit crew through the process of striking sail and letting the other ship come alongside.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” said Edward Teach, dropping onto the deck from the gangplank. “That was the worst tacking I’ve seen in years. Thought I must have heard the rumours wrong about your new ship.”

“New ship,” said Charles, “very new crew.” There was nothing conveniently near on deck for him to lean on, so he folded his arms instead and looked his old mentor up and down. “D’you need something?”

“Aye,” said Teach. “Let’s talk.”

There was Spanish wine on the Captain’s cabin, and fancy engraved cups, and big wooden chairs. Teach accepted a cup and sprawled in a chair before the enormous desk as if he owned the place, and Charles slouched opposite him and waited.

“I hear Nassau’s an interesting place to be these days,” said Teach eventually.

“Always was,” said Charles. “There have been some changes.”

“The Guthrie brat got what was coming to her.” The statement was idle, and Teach’s dark eyes gleamed out from under his dark brow, watching Charles’ reaction carefully.

“Matter of opinion,” said Charles. Mouthful of wine. “Still, it’s an insult. They’re testing how easy it is to disrupt life on Nassau, to retake it.”

Teach frowned. “Piss-easy. Always has been. Take out the fort and every ship and crew’ll run for the hills. There’s no loyalty, no need to defend Nassau when any other spit of land’ll do.”

Charles shrugged. “Like you said. Nassau’s changed.”

“I doubt it’s changed that much,” sneered Teach. “Or do you think Hornigold’s Pirate Republic is going to become an actuality? Shall we all salute the black and pay taxes into Hornigold’s fort?”

“You’re a little behind the times,” said Charles, obscurely pleased at having one over his old mentor. “Hornigold’s dead. My men hold the fort.”

“Ah, you’ve taken up the banner,” said Teach. “King Charles.”

“What the fuck do you want, Teach,” said Charles. “You didn’t chase me halfway to Jamaica for gossip about Hornigold.”

Teach sat back in his chair, toying with the cup, his expression unreadable. “Your crew’s shit.”

“They’re green,” said Charles. “They’ll learn.”

“Time was, no pirate on the account would be sailing with such a crew.”

“Time was,” said Charles.

Silence descended. Charles poured himself another drink, and slid the bottle across so Teach could reach it, if he was so inclined.

Charles had learned patience in the decade since Teach had been driven from Nassau. Jack Rackham would teach anyone patience. If Teach expected Charles to push the conversation ahead, to give him an opening, Charles intended to disappoint him. Teach had been the one to chase him across the fucking ocean; let Teach crack first.

The silence lingered and stretched, passing through awkward out the other side into outright mutual belligerence.

“Tell me you aren’t starting a war with Charlestown,” said Teach eventually, and Charles raised his cup to his mouth to hide his smile.

“Not starting anything,” he agreed. “Just fighting back.”

“May as well let the bitch hang,” said Teach. “She’s not worth all this.”

“Ain’t about her.”

“Bullshit. She’s always led you around by the cock.”

Charles thought about telling Teach how Eleanor had taken the empire her father had built over decades and recreated it in an afternoon while a mob battered at her door. He thought about the price on Flint, Nassau’s naval strategist; about Woodes Rogers and his insight into the pirate mind. He contemplated the giant pile of gold in his fort, waiting to be counted.

“They’ll keep coming for us,” he said eventually. “They’ll go after the fences and suppliers, and the captains who have influence. They’ll take the island out from under us, and they won’t have to sink a single ship to do it.”

“So go elsewhere,” said Teach. He looked unimpressed.

Charles looked out the window, suddenly tired. “There was a time,” he said, “when it wasn’t _Hornigold’s_ Pirate Republic. You believed in a free Nassau, once.”

“And look where that fucking got me,” said Teach. “Free of Nassau.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say to that. Charles had his reasons for backing Eleanor; reason beyond his lust-drunk wits. But it wasn’t likely that Teach would ever believe that his vicious treatment of his crewmen or his disdain for the merchants of the island made him wildly unpopular and easy to overthrow, that Charles had been one of his few supporters towards the end. Eleanor may have been intoxicating, an ambitious little siren with the poise of a queen, but she’d been persuasive because she was _right_. She’d made Nassau work as something more than a hole to crawl into between hunts, and Teach would never have allowed it. His Pirate Republic would be built with blood and gold, not trade and business.

“Well,” said Charles. “You came all this way to complain about my taste in women, then?”

“I came all this way to stop you from making a stupid mistake,” said Teach heavily. “But I see you’re committed to the idiocy.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “If you’re going to be stupid, son, be smart about it.”

 

“I don’t know where he got all this,” said Jack, some days later, “but it’s a fucking goldmine. Shipping routes up and down the coast for the next six months, contracts between plantations and shipping companies, and this -” a letter on fancy paper, loopy ladylike writing, “- correspondence from Ashe’s daughter, apologising for her delay in boarding a ship to join him in Charlestown.” He tapped the folded paper against his knuckles. “She’s booked passage on a later ship.”

Charles grinned. “And since we have that letter, I’m guessing her father doesn’t know?”

“Here’s the kicker,” said Jack. “She was supposed to be on the _Good Fortune_.”

It took Charles a moment. “The ship Low took? Where he got Flint’s man from?”

“The very same,” said Jack. “He never got this letter, so as far as her father knows, she’s been in pirate hands more than a month. He must be frantic.”

“I owe Teach a drink, then,” said Charles. “Do we know what ship the Ashe girl will actually be on?”

“We do,” said Jack cheerfully. “It’s expected to dock in Charlestown two weeks from now, weather permitting and so forth.”

“That gives us plenty of time,” said Charles. “I reckon it’s time to send a message to Governor Ashe, don’t you?”

“I quite agree,” said Jack. “Perhaps we might consult Flint and his friends for the most effective way to deliver it? They seem to be rather invested in his downfall.”

“S’long as it gets the job done.”

Jack paused in the act of fiddling with his cuffs. “I hope you aren’t planning on a straight trade of one girl for another. I’m sure we could get other favours from Lord Ashe in return for his only child.”

Charles grunted. “Maybe.”

“Money, Charles.”

“Don’t need money.”

“ _I_ need money,” Jack grumbled. “I should be charging you for all the reading I’m doing for you. Anyway, the Governor of Carolina could do a lot of non-monetary favours as well, couldn’t he?”

“If you’re thinking of pardons -”

“Or course I’m not thinking of pardons. Christ. Besides, if Hamilton’s to be believed, there’ll be pardons raining from the sky at any moment, just as soon as this Tree Rogers chap gets around to making his way across the bloody Atlantic.”

“Good kindling, that,” said Charles.

“Rogers or the pardons?”

“Both.”

“Quite.”


End file.
